


Buried Alive

by blue_eyed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-08
Updated: 2010-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_eyed/pseuds/blue_eyed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, John is buried alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the meme here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=6841767#t6841767
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful et_cetera55 for putting up with my dodgy tenses and timelines and generally being a star. Any remaining mistakes are mine. First fic in the fandom :) I own nothing *sob*

Consciousness pulls at John, pain intruding on the heady blackness that was his current existence. He tries to resist, brain instinctively knowing that being awake would be a Bad Thing right now.  
He breathes deep and slow through his nose, head swimming and heavy. As he comes fully awake his head clears, and he can open his eyes without fear of throwing up. The darkness from inside his head has bled to the outside. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands, winces, there a bruise or two there. A small piece of gauze, too. He can't remember cutting himself. Can't remember much if he's honest. He waits for his eyes to adjust.

His phone buzzes at him. John fumbles in his pocket, cursing when his elbow hits something hard. It feels like a wall, but the texture is off, not concrete or brick. Wood.  
Frowning to himself, he pulls the phone out of his pocket, and holds it above his face, squinting as the light hurt his eyes. He doesn't recognise the number. Wait. He doesn't recognise the phone. It's an old Nokia, doesn't even have a colour screen.

Wakey, wakey.

John tries to sit up, banging his head before he's anywhere near upright. He lies flat again, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind races, he replays the last thing he remembers in his head:– walking down the street, chinese in hand...a black car slowing next to him...a door opens. Mycroft, he thinks. He bends down, expecting to see Anthea or whatever her name is, but instead a man. The man grabs him, pulls him. He remembers pain as his head smacks against the car. It disorients him enough that he can be pulled bodily in the car. Another couple of swift punches and it all goes dark.

He reaches out his right hand, unbending it above his head. It's not long at all- not even a fully outstretched arm-span – before he hits a ceiling. It's rough, the same as the wall to his left. He swallows hard, and runs his hand along the ceiling to his right. There's more space this side:- his arm fully stretched out when it hits the other wall. On the floor next to him are some items. His mind grabs onto this distraction, refusing to focus on the problem in hand, circling the obvious conclusion and gravity of his situation as he knows it. He presses a button on the phone, making it light up. He rolls onto his side and aims the phone screen in the direction of the unknown objects on the floor. There's a torch and a gun. He picks up the torch, aims it at his feet and switches it on.

His heart stops for a second, then pounds sickeningly hard in his chest. The torch illuminates every corner. He knew he was in a narrow, low space, but now he can see how short it is, scant inches of space at the top of his head and his feet. He can see, and his mind fully comprehends what's been rolling around it's edges. He's in a coffin. A wide coffin, but a coffin nevertheless. He can't sit up, can barely roll over. Adrenalin floods his system, even though fight or flight is useless here. John takes a deep breath, and another. And another. Hyperventilating is not going to help, it doesn't help in normal circumstances nevermind one where the oxygen supply might be limited. John squeezes his eyes shut. Come on, he thinks, deep breaths. Think. He pushes against the lid, trying to open it. He tries the sides, pushes until his shoulder screams at him, all with the same result. Panic claws up his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. He punches the lid once, letting out a noise, high like a whimper, half pain, half panic. He stops, lies still.

You have a phone, a torch, what else? What else have you got, can you use? He opens his eyes and looks around. He eyes catch on a small red light by his feet. It's attached to a small black box. He wonders if it's a camera.

The phone buzzes again, ringing this time. Same number the message came from. He answers.

“Hello, John.” The thick, Irish accent makes him pull in another deep breath. “I see you've realised your situation.”

“What do you want?” He voice is gravelly.

“You've been relaxed in my absence, you and Sherlock. You've forgotten what you're getting into. I think you both need a reminder. And after all, I did promise Sherlock I'd burn him. Smile for the camera, won't you, John?” The phone goes dead in John's hand. He looks at the phone, fully realising that he has a way of communicating to the outside world, surely Mycroft can get a trace, he thinks, surely, even as the other half of his mind reminds him that Moriarty is a match for Sherlock and, as much as he enjoys leaving clues for Sherlock, this is much too easy.

He wonders if he can remember Sherlock's number, or Mycroft's number, or anyone's number at all, when he opens the contacts menu, and finds Sherlock's number there. The nausea that's never really gone away goes cold and hard in his stomach as he's reduced to a pawn in some great game once more. He knows by ringing Sherlock he's playing along, hitting Moriarty's kinks, but he's not sure what else to do. He hates being useless.

He hits dial and waits, trying to calm his breathing.

\---

The meandering notes of the violin transform into Pagnini.

Sherlock needs something challenging while he waits for John to come back, and a murderer to strike. It had been hatefully quiet, the past six months. The thrill of Moriarty's game and the recovery after the pool had lasted almost three weeks. Moriaty had disappeared after the explosion, no body had been found. Mycroft had upped the surveillance, John had been...not skittish, John was always under control, but definitely on edge. But ever since then...nothing. Well, not absolutely nothing, obviously London still suffered crimes, but nothing imaginative, nothing interesting. Eventually, John had stopped carrying his gun around the flat, and Mycroft had reduced his levels of interference.

He sighs, letting the notes grow sloppy, eventually putting his bow down. The hateful, familiar restlessness of boredom is pulling at his limbs. Sherlock hears footfalls on the stairs, Mrs. Hudson's, slower than normal, her hip has been bothering her and she's indulged in one of soothers.

“This was just delivered for you, dear.” She holds out a jiffy bag. Sherlock sits upright, taking it off her and examining it. It's addressed to him, but he wasn't expecting anything, and certainly not hand-delivered.

“Did you see who delivered it?”

“It was a lady. Tall, she was. Dark hair? It's dark out, couldn't see much.” Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. People were so blind. He hopes the identity of the deliverer doesn't turn out to be important.

He focuses his attention on the envelope. It's a standard size jiffy bag, nothing unique or special. It's addressed to him by name, no address; the person delivering either knew where he lives or was given directions. He doesn't advertise where he lives but it's not exactly hard to find out. The name is written in pen, ball-point, but not cheap either. Sherlock opens the envelope and tips the contents out onto the coffee table. There's a USB key and a tiny bottle. He peers into the bag, there's nothing else, no letter or instructions.

He picks up the USB key, maybe that's where the instructions were. The USB key is small, generic brand – probably 1GB, maybe less. He pulls the laptop onto his lap, and plugs the key in. There is one document on the key, called 'Re: Watson' Sherlock's heart skips a beat. John wasn't back from getting take-out yet – it had been a while but not long enough to rule out any ordinary hold-ups, a large queue, the need for the food to be cooked from scratch...Sherlock pushed those thoughts from his mind a opened the document.

Hello darling,  
Did you miss me? I've a present for you, for your viewing pleasure. I'm sure you've been dreadfully bored without me.

Jim.

There was a link in the document. Sherlock waited impatiently for the webpage to open. There was a video, and a timer below that, ticking down from 120 minutes. Sherlock pressed play.

The video was dark, Sherlock could see vague movements, but there wasn't enough light for it to be specific. A tiny light appears, it doesn't illuminate much, but it's enough. Sherlock can see the jacket, John's asymmetric jacket. He can see John reach out an arm, move it around. It goes dark again as the light dies. Sherlock stays there, unmoving for long movements, mentally replaying the few moments over, trying to get as much information as he can. The video goes bright, John's found a torch. The box is about 6 feet long, 5 feet wide, 3 feet tall. John could roll over, but not much else. The box was...wood, pale, rough. He was momentarily distracted by watching John test the lid, the sides, breathing growing more ragged. He punches the lid, and cries out before lying still.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, forces himself to focus on the facts. John answers the phone – the phone isn't his, it's an old one, Nokia 3310 possibly. The phone won't have GPS, it won't be as easy to trace it, clever, very clever. John hangs up and looks at the phone. He puts the phone back to his ear.

Sherlock jumps as his phone rings. There's an unknown number on the screen. He looks from the phone to the screen and back again.

“John.”

“Sherlock. How did you know?”

“I can see you.” There's a pause. Sherlock can hear John swallow. Can see John tilt his head up and look down at his feet. For a moment, Sherlock can meet his eyes.

“The camera.”

“Yes. What can you tell me?” A shaky breath.

“Not much. I was on the way back to the flat. There was a black car – I assumed it was Mycroft. But there was a man, blonde, fairly young. I was knocked out, and woke up here. Sherlock – Moriaty, he's - ”

“He's not dead, I know. What about where you are, what can you tell me?” Sherlock presses, needing as much information as quickly as possible. He doesn't know the rules of this game, doesn't know when or if he'll be cut off from John.

“It's a wooden box, Sherlock.” John says. “No light from the outside. No markings on the wood.”

“No vents? No fans?”

“No.” John's voice drops to a whisper, and Sherlock realises that the timer is a deadline, it's how long John has left-how much oxygen he has in there.

Sherlock looked at the soil sample. “You've got two hours of air in there.” John's breath stutters. “The torch batteries should last that long.”

“I'm not sure how long the battery's going to last on the phone.”

“Don't turn it off. We can't trace it if you turn it off. What else do you have with you?”

“Just the phone, the torch and a gun.” John's voice breaks slightly, and Sherlock feels himself grow cold. That was a message, an unmistakable message and now the need for urgency tingles up his spine, clarifying his mind.

“Has he contacted you? Does he want anything?”

“Yes, he rang. He said-said that we'd forgotten what we were getting into, while he was away. This is a reminder.” Sherlock swallowed, anger warring with the familiar rush a good case brings, sharpening it until it's something like painful

“He sent a soil sample, he's giving me a clue, but there isn't much time, I need to go – I'll ring you when I've got something.”

“Ok.” There's a pause, a moment where Sherlock doesn't know what to say. He should probably say something reassuring, give John some meaningless platitude. But he doesn't know one, and he's not sure John would want that. He's still not used to this caring thing, not really. He's used to caring about people in an abstract kind of way. John is more immediate, possibly because he's always there, being dependable and reckless in equal measures, and now he's not, he's on the side of the equation and that's wrong. So he hangs up, knowing that what John really needs is for him to get moving, to go and find him.

Sherlock picks up the bottle and holds it up to the light. Inside appears to be soil. He opens it, smells it. He pours some onto his hand, it's not soil found in your common garden, not really soil, more dirt, gravel, and grey flecks that may be concrete dust. Industrial site, maybe building site. Maybe a warehouse? It's something, but not enough. He needs access to a lab, to a computer. He also needs Mycroft. He looks back at the video, John's lying there, hands clenched into fists. Sherlock looks back to the phone.

I need access to the lab. SH  
What for this time? GL  
Will explain at the Yard. SH  
There isn't a case, Sherlock, I can't authorise it. GL  
There is now. SH  
Are you going to tell me what's going on? GL  
Moriaty's back. He's taken John. SH  
I'll be right there. GL

He shuts down the laptop, and pulls the USB key out, putting the key in a pocket. He does the same with the soil sample, and the envelope. He grabs his coat from the door and runs down the stairs. He dials Mycroft's number; he's sure his brother must have noticed something by now.

“Sherlock.”

“What do you know?” Sherlock set off down the street at an almost run, looking for a taxi. He flings out an arm at the first one he sees. Thankfully it stops.

“Not a lot. Not all of the city is under surveillance, they knew how to get around undetected.”

“I need you to trace a phone.” Sherlock rattles off the phone number, knowing that his brother will remember, as he had. He hangs up.

Sherlock arrives at the Yard, and bustles into Lestrade's office.

“What's happened?”

“John was kidnapped this evening. This was delivered to me by hand.” Sherlock thrusts the USB stick at Lestrade, hating this need to slow down and explain. It was bad enough normally, when he was close to solving a case, the perpetrator. Now, when there was a deadline, when he needed people to understand, or to at least let him work without question, it was unbearable.

Lestrade frowns at Sherlock, who sighs and gestures at the computer. Lestrade sits at his desk, still frowning.  
His eyes widen as the video starts to play.

“What the hell?” Sherlock moves around to stand behind Lestrade. John is still lying still, absently fiddling with his phone. His respiration rate is slightly raised, but that was to be expected. Apart from that he seems fine.

“What happened? What do you have so far?”

“John was taken this evening. He was knocked unconscious and driven somewhere. He woke up in that box. He has a phone, a torch and a gun. The timer is counting down how much oxygen he has left.” Lestrade swore. “I was sent a soil sample, presumably from where John is buried. We can also track where his phone is – it's an old phone, so no GPS. I need to get to the lab so I can analyse the soil, hopefully that will give us a sufficiently narrow area to search. Above all, I need to do this quickly, John doesn't have much time left.”

“Who did this?”

“Moriaty, who else?”

“The nutter from the pool? I thought he'd died?”

“Clearly not.” Sherlock snaps, heading to the door. He doesn't have time for this, he needs to get in the lab.

“What does he want? Why is he doing this?” Sherlock stops in the doorway.

“It's a reminder that he isn't gone. That he can still play.” Sherlock sweeps out and down the hall.

Lestrade sighs, rubbing his eyes. He has no idea why this Moriaty was so...obsessed with Sherlock and John. Well, maybe just Sherlock, and John was just caught up in the slipstream. He had always assumed that being that involved with Sherlock would lead to trouble, but he assumed it would be more...personal? More related to the effects of living with Sherlock - he imagines it would get wearing after a while. He never envisioned anything like this. He looks back up at John, the video still running, takes a deep breath and picks up the phone. He knows he's going to be fighting Sherlock even more than normal on this one; but he still needs to follow procedure, and manpower will be needed when they find where's John being kept.

\---

John closes his eyes, and concentrates on his breathing. His head hurts. Thankfully, he hasn't got concussion, although maybe the confusion would make this less terrifying?

He has faith in Sherlock and Lestrade, and even Mycroft. He knows they'll find him. He's just? not entirely sure they'll find him in time. He looks at clock on his phone. Thirty minutes has gone since he called Sherlock. Sherlock must be at the Yard by now...maybe he's called Mycroft. John really hopes that's gone well. He knows Sherlock and his brother have taken sibling rivalry to their customary levels of drama (and disdain on Sherlock's side) but he's confident they could actually work together if needed. And, as much as John hates to admit it, he really needs them right now.

It's cold - John refuses to add 'down here' to the end of that statement – it's November after all, and a ground frost was forecast. Oh, God, that's going to make digging him out awkward. They'll get some form of digger, won't they? Moriarty had to use something similar to...bury him, surely? He shudders, and hunches down into his jacket, shoving his hands into his pocket. He knows he can't do anything else, he can't even play bloody snake on the phone in case the battery gives out too soon.

He flexes his muscles, trying to work out the growing stiffness. He massages his leg, grimacing at Sherlock's voice in his head telling him that it's all in your head, idiot. Not useful right now.

He pulls the phone out of his pocket. 35 minutes gone.

\---

Thirty minutes after Sherlock had swept into Lestrade's office, there's a room set up for the investigation. There's a map spread on a table, 221b Baker street is highlighted. Donovan and Anderson are grumbling in a corner about Sherlock taking over the case, and not sharing information and evidence. They've pulled CCTV of John being taken and marked the route the car took as far as they can, but that was a dead-end - the car disappears.

Lestrade sighs. He needs to know what Sherlock knows.

When Lestrade gets to the lab, Sherlock is sitting at a bench with a microscope and several different tubes in front of him.

“What have you found?”

“There's concrete and wood dust present in the soil, typical of a building site. We need to wait for the phone trace to come back, so we can cross-reference potential places.” Sherlock checks his phone compulsively; he knows Mycroft will probably need a little longer, even if he does throw all of his considerable weight around.

“So, what, now we wait?”

“Have you any other suggestions? Divination, maybe? Doing anything before getting that trace is a waste of time.” Sherlock stands and starts to pace restlessly. “We will need a map though.”

“We've set up an incident room, there's a map there. Wait, how are you getting a trace, you haven't done it through us?”

“No. That's being taken care of.” Lestrade watches as Sherlock peers down the microscope again.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock's stubbornness. “Are you going to let me in on this at all? It would make it easier for me to help you if I know you're going through proper channels.”

Sherlock sighs. This is ridiculous. “Yes, yes, you don't need to worry about that. Now. We need the map.” Lestrade frowns at Sherlock. He turns and leads the way to the investigation room.

Normally Sherlock isn't so...reticent, Lestrade thinks. He gets frustrated when he has to slow down but more often than not he does elaborate. Possibly more often now that John is around complimenting him. But this complete refusal isn't like Sherlock. He assumes this means that Sherlock has called in a favour in order to get this done, rather than do it himself. A memory floats through Lestrade's mind. Not long after he had first met Sherlock-whilst they were still working on their first case together in fact, a man in a slightly too-large suit with an umbrella had appeared in his office and introduced himself as someone who was interested in Sherlock's acquaintances. He had been powerful enough to get past the front reception without any issues. It wouldn't surprise Lestrade if he wasn't behind this trace.

–

Donovan and Anderson look up as they enter the room, glaring as Sherlock pushes past Lestrade. Sherlock ignores them and looks at the map, fingers tracing the route from John being picked up until it disappears.

Sherlock stares down at the map. He knows he shouldn't be looking for places John could be before getting data from Mycroft, he shouldn't be trying to get ahead of himself but he finds he can't help himself. His phone beeps at him. He hurriedly pulls the phone out of his pocket and opens the email Mycroft has sent him. The email contains a range of numbers – latitude and longitude data – and a resultant map of the area where John could be located.

“Pen.” He holds his hand out, eyes scanning the map. There's an industrial estate in the grid mentioned, the only place that fits. It's big though – hopefully there'll only be one site, Lestrade should be able to narrow it down. He draws a circle on the map on the table.

“John's somewhere in this area. Most likely here -” he draws another circle around the industrial estate “ - we'll need information about any building work, and access.”

“How do you know that? You can't just expect us to jump if you're not going to tell us where you get your evidence from!” ADonovan gestures at the map angrily, looking from Sherlock to Lestrade. Anderson glares at Sherlock from behind her, arms crossed over his chest.

“What does it matter as long as it gets the job done?”

“We can worry about this later.” Lestrade's snaps. Donovan and Anderson snap almost to attention. “We have more important things to be worrying about. Donovan, get information on this estate, we need to know where there's building work and we need access. We're also going to need to know if there's digging equipment on site. Anderson, we need to get some people together, we need someone to operate a digger, and have an ambulance on stand-by.” He turns to Sherlock. “What are the chances of Moriarty being on the scene?”

“Minimal. He'll be watching from a distance. He doesn't like getting his hands dirty. There may be henchmen though. I'd advise taking back-up.”

Lestrade turns to Anderson, who nods. “I also want everyone wearing bullet-proof vests. ” Sherlock snorts. “If you want to be on the scene, you'll wear a vest, Sherlock. We'll clear the scene as much as we can, but when we're sorting John out we'll be vulnerable.”

Sherlock sighs but nods once.

“Right, go. We've got-” He checks his watch. Christ. “Seventy minutes.”

His officers leave the room and Lestrade feels the restless energy that had been bouncing around his body uselessly finally start to gain direction and momentum.

“Come on, let's go check on John.”

–

The phone rings, startling John out of his reverie. He'd been mentally reciting the BNF, (bendroflumathiazide, used to treat hypertension, oedema, and heart failure), dull, but something to keep his mind busy, to loose himself in.

He picks the phone up with fingers numb from the cold and looks at the number. It's not Sherlock. He contemplates not answering it, not bowing to Moriarty's whims, make at least some choice in this situation, but Moriarty is...not unstable, but he certainly unpredictable, and John doesn't know how he'll respond to them not playing along. He wants to make this as easy for Sherlock as possible. He takes a deep breath and answers.

“Hi, John!” John remains silent.

“Oh, are you not talking to me now? Never mind, I can talk for both of us. Almost half-way there! The suspense is killing me. Well, more you than me, I suppose.” He giggles, a harsh sound that's painful to John's ear after silence for so long. “But, I'm still excited. Sherlock's being such a brave little soldier, I can't decide whether I want him to find you in time or not. It will be a wonderful show either way, I'm sure.”

John seethes. This, he hates more than anything, this feeling of utter helplessness that comes from being a piece in this game. The only way to win is not to play, but that choice has been taken away from him too. He tries desperately not to give a response.

“And you're being a brave little soldier, too. I was expecting at least some panic.” He sounds disappointed, which please John in a twisted way. Moriarty was wrong, of course, John's nerves hadn't stopped thrumming since he'd realised what was going on. His skin feels brittle over a churning mess of adrenalin and emotions. John knows if he snapped he'd scream and thrash and probably do a fair bit of damage. He was relying on his control to keep him safe and sane. He pulls in another deep breath and closes his eyes. Moriarty's voice is grating, piercing, and the words he's saying aren't much better, and John's not sure if he can take much more of it.

“Gosh, you're being boring aren't you? Maybe I'll call Sherlock. He's much more...responsive. Byeee.” Silence reigns once more. John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

(Betahistine, used to treat vertigo and and balance disorders).

The air's definitely getting thin now. He can feel himself slowly growing sluggish. His breaths are becoming shallower, his body working on instinct to preserve what he can. He forces himself back to his task.

(Bicalutamide, used to treat metastatic carcinoma of the prostate).  
\---

Sherlock watches John. He hasn't moved-if it wasn't for the rise and fall of John's chest he wouldn't be sure that John was still alive. His heart clenched and he just wanted to get there and get John out and back to Baker Street, where he'd be safe. He may never let him out of the flat again.  
His phone chirps at him. He pulls it out of his pocket. He can feel his muscles tense as he reads the number. He doesn't recognise it. Lestrade looks up at him questioningly as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hello darling,”

“Moriarty.” Lestrade frowns at him, listening intently now, as if he can do something just be listening in on a phone call.

“Just calling to check in on you, dear. You're doing very well, I was just telling John what a brave little soldier you were being.” Sherlock's muscles clench at the thought of Moriarty tormenting John further.

“What do you want, Moriarty?”

“Sherlock, you sound angry! And after all the effort I've gone to to keep you entertained, I would've thought you'd be grateful to me. You're not bored any more are you?”

Either Moriarty is guessing or he knows what's been going on since his departure. Sherlock wonders how he's managed to keep surveillance up despite Mycroft. Was it possible that Moriarty had someone in Mycroft's ranks? And that was...worrying, because inside Sherlock's head – where he was brutally honest – he could admit that Mycroft was the cleverer Holmes' brother, and if Moriarty could fool Mycroft, then he had grossly underestimated the consulting criminal. He could only hope that Mycroft knew, that this was some double bluff, keeping his enemies close.

“You've got my attention. You can leave John out of this.” Moriarty scoffs, loud and undignified.

“I'm honoured, Sherlock, really I am. But, no. This is far too much fun. See you very soon, sweetie.”

He hangs up, and Sherlock stares at his phone.

“What did he say?” Lestrade demands, standing now.

“Nothing important.” Sherlock says, dismissing to the back of his mind. He's not going to delete it, not yet, but now isn't the time to sit and give it the necessary attention. Lestrade makes a frustrated noise but drops the matter, something which Sherlock is ridiculously grateful for.

“I'm going to ring John.”

“You're going to ring him?” Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

“It's not unheard of.” Sherlock retorts as he listens to the phone ring out. Lestrade just shakes his head and sits back down, closing the video.

“Sherlock.” John rasps. His voice is quiet, he's most likely dehydrated, Sherlock thinks, he'd been drinking beer before he went for take-out.

“John. Are you alright?”

John snorts. “I've been better.”

“We'll be there soon. We'll get you out.” Sherlock can hear John take a shaky breath.

“Good, good.” John's voice is tight, brittle, reminiscent of the time Sherlock had broached the subject of John's nightmares, when John had appeared in the living room at 3am to curl up in his armchair. John had answered in single syllables, expression shuttered and carefully bland. Sherlock had dropped the subject, realising that John needed the relative normality of their interactions rather than an ear. Sherlock had picked up his violin and lost himself in the familiar movements until John had nodded off once more. “The air's getting a bit thin, I think. I'm not dizzy, yet, so that's something.”

Sherlock feels himself react, Lestrade must've seen or heard something, he looks up at Sherlock, questioningly.

“We'll be there within 10 minutes.” Sherlock hangs up, ready to get John out of there now, surely, even with the weight of their combined incompetency, surely everything is set for them to go.

“We have to get there now, Lestrade.”

\---

It's taken them almost half an hour to get everything together. The only reason Sherlock didn't leave at the time, running through London was because he knew he wouldn't be much use by himself (and that was far too hard for him to admit). Logic dictated that he needed Lestrade and his resources to get John out and that being at the site without them would be more frustrating that berating the personnel at the station to be quicker. The foreman from the building site has been woken up, and is going to meet them at the estate. They've contacted the security company that patrols the estate, and the person on duty is expecting them.

A convoy of patrol cars, unmarked cars and an ambulance heads to the other side of London, blues and twos ensuring they're given a wide berth as they hurtle down the street. It'll take them ten minutes by Sherlock's reckoning, the late hour means the roads are mostly clear of traffic. That gives them thirty minutes to get John out of there. It's not long enough, nowhere near long enough for Sherlock's comfort but it will have to do.

He's out of the car before it's fully comes to a stop, Lestrade yelling after him. The two men at the gate are staring at the organised chaos that's squealed to a halt in front of them.

“Open the gates!” Sherlock yells. The security guard startles and fumbles with the keys. Sherlock rounds on the foreman. “Where is the building work going on?”

“Unit 12, right at the end of the road.”

“Come on!” Sherlock leads the foreman to the car, jumps back in and barks the unit number at Lestrade, who drives off, leading the rest of the vehicles.

\---

John's definitely reaching the last of the air. His limbs are heavy and his head swims. It's like being on morphine but without the blissful, not caring, feeling no pain sensations. It's a bit rubbish, if he's honest. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his hands over his face. His fingertips feel freezing to his eyelids, and that jolts him back to reality a bit.

He picks up the phone and squints at the numbers. He can't remember when his time is up, or when Sherlock said he'd be there. This angers him, stupid, stupid, he should be able to remember. He flings the phone awkwardly somewhere by his feet, the clatter loud in the small confines of the box.

He concentrates on his breathing again, he must keep it even. He must stay awake and breathing so Sherlock can come and fetch him.

He thinks he had reached 'D' in his recital when Sherlock rang. Digoxin, used to treat atrial fibrillation and atrial flutter, after beta-blockers and calcium channel blockers have been tried. Extracted from the foxglove plant (Digitalis lanata, Sherlock tells him, standing at the kitchen table with a handful of purple tubular flowers), an effective poison. John frowns. Those bits weren't in the BNF. He knows those bits because Sherlock knows those bits and Sherlock like to share his knowledge. Well, he likes to talk out loud and John's always there.

He shakes his head a little to clear it. 'Rambling thoughts, not a good sign', he thinks and takes another shallow breath, muscles starting to ache at the restriction of his breathing in this way. The wood swims before his eyes, a knot in the roof briefly swirls into an insect, large and shiny. John jumps and hisses as his leg and shoulder twang at the sudden movement. He blinks, the insect becomes a knot once more and John closes his eyes.

He clenches his hands, feels the drag of the wood against his skin. He's reminded of summers, when he was a boy, and he and his sister used to travel to a little cottage in the arse end of nowhere in the south of England. There was a lake, with a little wooden jetty. They'd sneak out at night and lie on the jetty, looking up at the stars, so many, clear and bright and nothing like the bleak stars in the city where they'd grown up.

His sister morphs into Sherlock, and they're walking, looking up into the London night sky, shocked that this man-who was so ruthless in what he knew and what he didn't-had the both the time and the desire to stargaze.

The scene swirls again and this time John fights it, he knows imagining, hallucinating, something. Moriarty, sneering at Sherlock, face oddly light by the mottled reflection of the swimming pool. Sherlock pulls a trigger and he struggles awake, head thumping off the roof. He lies there gasping, waiting for the pounding of his head to stop. He also desperately tries to keep a hold on his stomach, not wanting to make this any more unpleasant than it already was. The silence is deafening, as if he'd shouted something whilst asleep. He swallows, trying to soothe his parched throat.

He picks up the gun for something to do. He wants to dismantle it, to go through some familiar motions. He manages to pull out the clip, surprised that the gun was fully loaded. He had expected there to be only one bullet, it seems like it would appeal to Moriarty's dramatic, clichéd side. He manages to reload and just hold the gun in his hand, feeling the weight and coolness of the metal.

(Diltiazen hydrochloride, used in the treatment of chronic stable angina)

\---

Lestrade stops the car at the end of the road. He doesn't want to drive closer onto the actual site for fear of parking over John and making the whole situation worse. Sherlock makes a frustrated noise and gets out of the car. The officers are cautiously moving forward, flashing the torches back and forth. The paramedics are gathered at the rear of the group, not wanting to get in the way but wanting to be close for when they are needed.

He checks his radio, ensuring that everyone is in contact with everyone else. He glances around the site. Its dark, their torches aren't much use here. He can make out the skeleton of warehouse, and there are a handful of port-a-cabins scattered around. Not many places to hide, which reassures Lestrade slightly.

“I'm turning on the lights!” A voice calls out before floodlights burst to life. Lestrade stumbles and winces as the light burns spots into his vision. Once his vision is cleared he takes a good look at the site. There are no obvious signs of a recent disturbance as far as he can see. He can see a small digger tucked into a corner behind a cabin. Sherlock's already heading in that direction, followed by Donovan and a paramedic. Lestrade gestures to the foreman to follow them and sets off at a run himself.

\---  
John's muscles feel weak, although he's not sure if it's due to the lack of movement or the lack of oxygen. Either way his body feels light, and he's trembling slightly all over. It's a stark contrast to the hot, heavy, muggy feeling in his head.

John's breathing is starting to hitch, and he's now willing to admit he might not make it through this. It's different from the last time he nearly died (and the time before that; his mind supplies), this slow burn that has an edge of hysteria underneath it. Even when he had a bomb strapped to him, it hadn't felt like this.

A wave of exhaustion sweeps over him, the adrenaline he's been relying on has run out. He knows he needs to stay awake, just a little longer, Sherlock said he'd be there. John can't reach the phone to check the time. He doubts he can see straight enough to make out the numbers anyway.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that his vision will clear when he opens them.  
\----

“This is it, isn't it?” Donovan asks, pointlessly. Obviously this is the spot, there's a digger and a mound of earth roughly the right size. Sherlock nods, biting back the sarcastic comment. 'Now is not the time', he thinks, followed by 'John would be proud of my restraint'. He can hear Donovan and the foreman talking, the officer telling him to start the digger.

\---

John jolts awake, heart pounding. His head joins in the pounding and John finally loses control of his stomach struggles to turn he head as he vomits its pitiful contents on to the floor next to him. If anything, this makes the pounding and dizziness worse. He pants, really struggling for air.

He closes his eyes, but that's worse. Moriarty's sneering face swirls behind his eyelids.

“This is it, Johnny-boy! This is the end of the road. Not quite what you were expecting, eh?”

He knows the voice is in his head, but he also knows that it speaks the truth. He'd never envisioned this, how could he have?

“Still, exciting, isn't it? I can't wait to see Sherlock's face when he realises you're dead, at my hand, no less. It's going to be wonderful.”

This hits him square in the chest. He remembers the look that passed over Sherlock's face when he realised that John wasn't Moriarty- that John was strapped into a bomb jacket. The way his friend had ripped the jacket off him and flung it as far away as possible. Chasing after Moriarty had only occurred to him after he'd made sure John was safe. He can't imagine Sherlock's to Moriarty having killed John, but he knows the man well enough to know it will not be pretty.

John clenches his fists. The metal of the gun bites into his fingers. He brings it up to his eyes, looking at the gun as though he'd never seen one before. He'd never really contemplated suicide before, even when he'd been curled up in bed, reeling from the flashbacks and wondering if he'd ever be functional again (and knowing he'd never be able to operate again), it had never occurred to him to end it.

But, why not? He was going to die anyway, wasn't he? Surely better to die at his own hand (albeit forced) rather than at Moriarty's? It would make Sherlock angry, of course it would, but maybe he'd understand that it was better for John to die like this than waiting for Moriarty to win.

His breathing hitches, he chokes again and the darkness that's at the edge of his vision threatens to take over. When his breathing has slowed enough for his vision to clear- breathing seriously restricted, chest aching- his decision is made. He places the gun to his head, it's slightly awkward, given the small space, and mutters an apology.

\---

The engine clatters to life. The foreman manoeuvres it slowly, carefully into position. Lestrade stops beside Sherlock, panting slightly. He radios the paramedics, who start the ambulance up. It drives up to them slowly, backing up as close as they can get, as ready as they can be for a quick exit. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see a couple of officers approaching, each carrying a couple of spades, and Lestrade gives thanks that his men aren't as stupid as Sherlock thinks they are. He takes a couple of spades off them, not entirely shocked when Sherlock pulls one out of his hand.

The arm of the digger lowers and starts it's first shallow scrape of the earth. The movements of the arm are more jerky than normal; the foreman's probably terrified, Lestrade thinks. The wrong move and John would be injured or worse, and Sherlock's scary enough as it is tonight.

The pile of discarded earth next to the digger is growing, slowly. The tension thrumming through Sherlock appears to be growing at the same rate, he's practically vibrating next to Lestrade.

The digger arm digs back into the earth, but instead of the hushing noise of soil falling into the bucket, there's a dull thud and scrape. When the arm is lifted there's a patch of light brown showing through the almost black dirt. Sherlock jumps forward, yelling at the foreman to stop.

\----

The thump makes John jump. He endures another choking fit, tears stream from his eyes. John's lungs scream, there just isn't the air to breathe properly. His eyes roll back in his head.

\---

Their spades bite into the ground, shovelling haphazardly. The patch of wood they can see slowly gets bigger, takes shape. Sherlock's arms are aching with the strain of digging, and the vest rubs painfully with every thrust. He blinks as sweat seeps into his eyes, but he doesn't want to pause to wipe them. Now he can almost see John he doesn't want to waste another second. He realises he may be frantic in a way he's never been before.

The majority of the soil has been removed now, and a couple of people are trying to pry the box open. Sherlock throws the spade down and drops to his knees. As soon as there's space Sherlock puts his hands in the gap, pushing the wood up and off.

“John! John!”

John's unconscious, his face is grey and his lips tinged blue. There's a small puddle of vomit next to him, and his left hand is curled loosely around the gun. His finger is curled loosely around the trigger, Sherlock wonders if he was planning to shoot it, and if so, at whom? Lestrade appears next to him.

“Come on, help me get him out.” He grabs John's ankles. “Medic! Get over here!”

Sherlock grabs John's shoulders and together they haul John out and on to the ground. John isn't breathing.

The paramedics move forward, taking charge, moving Sherlock out of the way as they go to work.

Lestrade firmly pulls Sherlock back. “You can go with him in the ambulance, but you need to let them work”

“I know that!” Sherlock snaps.

“Then, come on, just back here a bit.” Lestrade is using his soothing voice, the kind Sherlock has heard him use on relatives of murder victims. He hates it. Any other time he'd tell Lestrade how ridiculous it is, but right now he's distracted – John's breathing again, gulping down air.

Sherlock rushes towards John as he's being transferred to a stretcher.

“John.”

“Sherlock.” He winces a little as he speaks. John sounds terrible, voice scratchy and thready.

“Shush. You'll only do more damage.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of John's mouth and he closes his eyes as he nods.

They pile into the back of the ambulance, Lestrade making noises about statements tomorrow. Sherlock nods absently, and then the doors are shut, and they're off.

\---

Dehydration, mild concussion, bumps bruises, and he's going to ache when he wakes up. Sherlock realises how lucky John was.

He's sleeping peacefully now, chest rising and falling naturally, easily. Sherlock is folded into a ridiculously uncomfortable plastic chair. He suspects that Mycroft is behind the private room and the fact that he hasn't been thrown out yet.

He leans forward, elbows on knees and chin on hands. This is the second time Moriarty has taken John. Sherlock cannot allow it to happen again. If Moriarty wants his attention then Sherlock will give it to him.

He looks at John's sleeping form once more and dials Mycroft's number.


End file.
